


Lukewarm

by intrepidheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5948074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidheart/pseuds/intrepidheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We sound like the beginning of a bad joke. A concussion, a fever, and two brothers walk into a bar..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lukewarm

“How long’s it been since we had somethin’ as simple as this, huh?”

Sam lifts his head from where he’s been staring blankly at the top of his boot. He can feel the graveyard dirt slipping down his sock past his ankle, little black crumbs tickling his skin.

“A while,” Sam admits, letting himself lean on his shovel as he watches Dean continue to work, chin resting on his overlapping hands. “Feels like a while, anyway.”

Dean stops digging to glare at him. “What do you think this is? Don’t be a freeloader.”

Sam shrugs. “I’m the one who broke ground. You can dig for a bit.”

Dean doesn’t like that apparently, because next thing Sam knows is that a pile of dirt is flying towards his face. He spits out the bits that made it into his mouth with a usual sigh to convey just how hard done by he is to be stuck with a brother like Dean Winchester.

Can’t ever let him know that Sam doesn’t know what to do with himself when Dean isn’t at his side for those short times they end up apart, like bathroom breaks and morning coffee runs. Can’t let him know that Sam’s gone and tucked his right lung into his brother’s back pocket which makes it that much harder to breathe, function, whatever, when Dean floats off to the bar down the road with a smarmy grin and a “don’t wait up” thrown over his shoulder. No. Can’t do that.

“I hope the coffin is rotten and you fall through.”

“Aww, Sammy. You’re so sweet to me.”

They keep digging. The tip of Sam’s spade comes in contact with the wood first, clanging dully as the strike sends tremors up his arms. He watches Dean try to scramble his way out of the grave only to fall right back down when a piece of earth comes out from under his hand.

“Yeah, okay, then your ass can go stand guard while I burn the bitch.” Dean snaps, scowling at Sam’s laughter.

Shrugging again, Sam heaves himself and his shovel out out of the grave and he thinks he hears Dean mutter “fuckin’ Sasquatch” before the crack of old Mrs. Jenkins’ coffin getting split open fills the air.

Sam’s loose from the digging, muscles warm and gooey from the repetitive motion and the comfort of his brother’s presence. So he’s slow, too slow, to pack the rock salt into his shotgun, too slow to become aware of his surroundings before there’s a violent hiss and he’s being tossed head-first into the nearest gravestone.

“Dean!” Sam shouts as a warning, but it comes out all garbled because he thinks he may have bitten off his tongue. There’s bright copper in his mouth and something hot streaming down the back of his neck and the ghost is turning towards the pit they dug and _no_.

Miracle, a goddamn miracle that Sam’s still got the gun in his grip, and he blinks away black spots as he sets the butt of it against his hip, does his best to aim from his jacked up position on the ground and shoots. Bullseye.

“Dean!” Sam tries again.

Nothing back, just a swishing noise, could be the salt leaving the metal container they like to keep in the trunk or it could be wispy white Mrs. Jenkins popping up right the fuck in front of Sam with a grimace and half her face melting off her skull. Could be that.

Second shot and she’s a puff in the breeze, thank God, and Sam’s finally able to move, getting up on his knees is better than laying on the dirt like a rag doll.

He can see Dean climbing out of the hole now, arms streaked with black dirt, face spattered with it too, a mockery of freckles that makes Sam miss summer because that’s when they come out in full force across the bridge of Dean’s nose. Dean’s out and standing, one hand shaking out gasoline as the other fumbles with his back pocket, his eyes scanning. Sam gets warm knowing that Dean’s looking for him and hates himself for it. Dean finally sees him, hesitates for a second as his body tilts toward Sam, instinct to protect momentarily overriding the salt and burn routine.

“Sammy? Shit, you okay?”

“Matches, Dean, burn her--”

“--the fuck you think I’m doin’, huh?--”

“--will you just--”

And Dean ends it by striking the entire matchbook and throwing it down to the coffin, just in time too because Mrs. Jenkins was coming at Sam for round three and he was out of rock salt.

Sam heaves a sigh of relief and slings an arm around the headstone to his left as support for when he tries to stand only to have something lift him quicker from under his right shoulder. Dean’s got a hold of Sam’s arm, pulling him up before grabbing gently at the back of Sam’s head. His hand comes away bloody, life force and family mixing with the gravedirt lining his palm.

“‘Course you’d end up with a massive head wound from a salt ‘n burn,” Dean mumbles as he drags the two of them over to collect their shovels and bags.

“Sorry to have inconvenienced you,” Sam replies sarcastically, but there’s no heat to it.

“Yeah, yeah, save it. Here, think you can manage to hold your own bag, you invalid?”

Sam takes it and swings it up so it thwaps Dean’s stomach, which makes them both stumble as he wheezes an “oof”, yeah, okay, maybe not a good idea to hit the guy who is carrying most of your weight, Sam, good one.

They somehow make it back to the car in one piece and Sam hums as Dean manhandles him into leaning against the passenger side door before bringing both of their bags to the trunk. It hurts to rest his head back on the roof but he does it anyway and blinks up at the night sky. It’s past two in the morning and the air is thick, fog smearing in front of the moon until it's nothing but a hazy silver ball. He feels tired down to his bones, tired and hungry and wanting a bed.

“All right, yappy, in you go.” Dean’s suddenly there, tugging at the front of Sam’s shirt. Had he been talking out loud? “C’mon, Sam, work with me,” and Sam hears the exhaustion lining his brother’s voice too, so he does his best, groaning as he peels himself from the exterior of the Impala and rolls to the side far enough for Dean to open the door and help him sit down on the seat.

“Hashbrowns,” Sam says, because yeah.

“Right,” Dean says back, because he gets it. Sam smiles. Dean always gets it. “Motel first, though, so I can decide whether or not I feel like patching you up. Still not sure if I wanna keep lugging your ass around with me.”

“Who says I want you to lug me around with you?” Sam says as Dean swings his legs into the footwell, all six miles of them.

“You kiddin’ me?” Dean says, stepping back to close Sam’s door. A moment later and he’s sliding in on Sam’s left, car rocking when he slams his door shut, picks his train of thought back up while turning the key in the ignition. “Do you know how lucky you are, kid? People would pay some good money to be dragged across the country by me.”

“Forgive me for not realizing you were so in demand.”

Dean throws him that grin in response, the one that blinds him and makes his stomach climb up his throat and his skin tingle all at once. That doesn’t help the vicious throbbing in his head, and he hisses in pain, lifting a hand to his eyes as he waits for it to pass.

Dean’s all business again, stone-faced and foot on the pedal as they pull away from the curb. “Right. Motel first.”

-

Apparently Dean decides he wants to keep Sam around because he gets his hands on Sam to drag him into their room, plops him on one of the two beds and pads into the bathroom to get a warm washcloth to wipe down Sam’s head and neck before stitching up the gash behind his left ear.

“She got you good,” Dean notes at one point, which makes Sam nod, and he doesn’t know if it’s his head movement or Dean’s hand grabbing his chin to steady him that make his world tilt for a moment. It always gets a little bit worse for Sam to get a handle on when he’s sick or injured, that wall coming down to let those thoughts usually held at bay come flooding through his veins. It’s annoying, is what it is.

“What’s annoying? What, you don’t like my stitching job? I’d like to see you try to do this one yourself, that’d be a sight.”

Sam really needs to shut up now.

“How hungry I am,” he says instead. “Why do I always get hungry after midnight?”

“Don’t ask me,” Dean heaves a sigh and stands up from his crouch, knees popping. Sam stays sitting on the edge of his bed and watches his brother lift his hand to press the damp cloth to the corner of Sam’s mouth. “‘S not like I can figure out what goes on in that head of yours, let alone your damn body.”

Thank God for that.

“You took the aspirin I gave you?”

“Yup.” Sam pops the ‘p’ because it always makes Dean squint at him like he’s fourteen and standing just shy of his shoulders again. He gets the look from Dean that he wanted and grins.

Scoffing, Dean reaches forward with his other hand and swipes his thumb across Sam’s bared teeth, the tip of his nail scraping along his top lip. Sam watches the world tilt again.

“Got a scary smile there, little brother. Like, cannibalistic-mass-murderer smile, blood and all. Go brush your teeth.”

If Sam stands in the bathroom and runs his tongue back and forth along the fronts of his teeth for a few minutes before sticking his toothbrush in his mouth, then no one needs to know that but him.

-

So Sam’s in love with his big brother.

Can you blame him?

Dean’s this enigma, this confusing bundle of energy and cocky smiles and overprotectiveness and infuriating smugness that suffocates Sam, smearing across his vision until it's all he can see, all he can look for in the moments when Dean isn't right by his side. It's practically a disease, this hot, licking pain that eats at the marrow of his bones. It fucking hurts, okay, pisses Sam off to be on fire with this feeling he knows shouldn't be racing through his veins, and he just _doesn't get it_.

He doesn't understand because there are those times, more often than not, where Dean is beyond unbearable. He’ll chew with his mouth open and ask Sam if he likes seafood and then stick his tongue out like a fucking four year old. He’ll let Sam doze off and then put on Metallica and crank the volume so loud that Sam flails awake and bruises his knee off the dashboard. He’ll leave the cap off the toothpaste and wait too long before agreeing to go to the Laundromat to do laundry and insist on getting burritos on the long legs of their drives because he’s a dick like that.

Sam’s learned to deal. What the fuck else is he supposed to do?

-

“Your face looks flushed,” Sam notes as he watches Dean shuffle through the door with two bags, one paper, one plastic, in hand.

“And your face looks stupid, as per. What’s your point?” Dean says with his usual snark as he tosses the car keys onto the table before coughing once into his fist.

Sam pointedly ignores his comment. “Are you feeling okay?”

Dean scowls as if Sam just told him that the Impala sounds out of tune. “What’re you doing worrying about me, huh? Stop projecting your concussed self onto me, I’m fine.”

The shuffling of a bottle being pulled from the tall paper bag muffles Sam’s soft, “Well who else is going to do it?”

One of the plastic cups from the bathroom is shoved unceremoniously into Sam’s hand just a minute later, filled up halfway with the whiskey Dean had said he was popping out to get twenty minutes ago. A container with a burger and a side of hashbrowns with packets of ketchup is in his lap immediately after.

“Is whiskey really the best idea if I have a concussion?” Sam muses as his vision swims before him for a moment, or is that just because he got a hit of Dean’s cologne as he walked by? He still takes a sip despite thinking he may have read something about avoiding alcohol when dealing with head injuries. It also helps distract him from the tight coil in his stomach that appeared after realizing that Dean remembered his stupid request for hashbrowns from an hour ago.

“You tell me, college boy.” Dean’s settling onto the bed to Sam’s left with his own tray of food, whiskey in hand, closest to the door. Old habits and all that.

Sam just rolls his eyes and keeps drinking. The liquor feels good down the back of his throat, soothing it with a blanket of heat that slowly oozes up his spinal cord in reverse to pour into the base of his skull. He’s propped up against his headboard, a pillow tucked behind his neck to cushion himself from the hard surface, still in his jeans from the job because he was too lazy to change anything but his bloody shirt after they got back.

There’s absolutely zilch on for decent tv, but there’s nothing else to do while they eat, so they eventually end up on an infomercial channel just to have something to watch. Well, for Dean to watch, because he’s bored and likes to be distracted, but he seems to telepathically know that Sam’s head is swimming so he lowers the brightness and keeps it on mute and doesn't make fun of Sam for eating with his eyes closed.

Turns out that is a terrible idea because even though the ads are silent, they still manage to convince Dean that just about everything these too-chipper salespeople are flourishing to the camera is something that they desperately need.

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice so reverent that it makes him open his eyes to see his brother pointing a fry at the tv screen as if he’s discovered gold. “Come _on_. Tell me that doesn’t look legit.”

Sam makes himself squint. “ShamWow, Dean? Really?”

“You know how much blood one of those things could probably soak up?”

“I don’t think I ever want to know, thanks.”

“What about these? Oh, _dude_. Tater Mitts? I’m in. Where’s my wallet? Get my wallet, Sam.”

“No.”

“Left pocket of my jacket. C’mon, before the number goes off the screen.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“And what is it exactly that you have against Tater Mitts?”

“Oh, I don’t know, the fact that we never fucking peel potatoes? When’s the last time we cooked our own meal? Does it look like we own a kitchen?”

“Way to be a killjoy, Samantha.”

“The fact that I have a concussion and still am the only one thinking rationally really speaks to something here, Dean.”

“You know what? Fine.” At this, Dean turns off the television and none too gently whips the remote at Sam’s legs splayed over his comforter. Sam hisses when it connects with his knee, rubbing at the spot with a frown. “I was just trying to enrich our lives and all you can do is whine about practicality.”

Sam’s just about to start his speech about better uses for their money and how all these things are going to end up tossed into the recesses of the Impala’s trunk when he finally lets himself _look_  at Dean. The lighting is still dim in their room but his face is still unmistakably redder than usual. Not because they were just bickering or because he’s actually upset. This is a sick flush, the glint of the bedside lamp catching on the sweat sweeping across Dean’s brow and down his neck.

“Dean.”

“What? What else are you gonna piss on tonight?”

“Dean, will you just shut up? I think you have a fever.”

He sits back for a moment and considers this, lips pursed. “I feel fine.”

Sam lets his gaze stray down the length of his brother’s body, finally noticing that he’s completely tucked under the comforter and sheets, still fully clothed.

“So you don’t feel cold at all? Chills? Maybe a little clammy?”

Sam watches diligently as Dean begins to document his body, dazedly realizing that he is, in fact, beneath the covers, and opening and closing his hands to feel that they probably are clammy as Sam said.

“Okay, well… so I’m cold. So what?”

Sam takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes, letting his head gingerly tilt back as he sends up a prayer to whatever God still exists. This is so typical of Dean. The guy can pinpoint the moment Sam picks up a cough that sounds a little too wet or a goddamn splinter in his finger after a ghost throws him across a porch, but can’t even notice when he himself is hurt or sick.

Finally he thinks he has enough strength to open his eyes and face his brother again. “You’re thick, you know that?”

“Wow, Sam, you sure know how to woo a guy,” Dean snaps back dryly.

A sharp thrill of fear screams its way down the highways of Sam’s veins, he knows, somehow he knows, he’s seen it, you’ve blown it, before Sam takes a particularly large gulp from what remains of his whiskey to stifle the panic. It’s just Dean. Just his usual stupid sayings.

“I mean that you didn’t even notice you weren't feeling well, man,” Sam croaks, swinging his legs over the side of his bed to have Dean in his full sights. “That shit’s kinda hard to miss.”

“Well, you and your massive head injury have kinda been my priority, all right? Sue me.”

Sam wants to shake his head, nearly does, but he remembers said head injury just in time to save him the inevitable pain that would follow. “I’m getting the thermometer from the med kit.”

“Calm your tits, Samantha, I’ll pop some ibuprofen and it’ll be cleared up by morning.” Dean punctuates the end of his sentence with a harsh cough. He looks almost surprised that it left him, his hand hovering over his throat as if it finally sunk in that this is going to take more than a one-time pill to fix.

“Thermometer,” Sam repeats slowly, eyebrows raising as he gets to his feet. Once he’s positive that he can remain upright, he starts to shuffle towards the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Not five minutes later and the plastic stick is beeping cheerfully from where it’s protruding from Dean’s pouted mouth. Sam takes care to keep his eyes averted as he pulls it free before reading numbers flashing up at him.

“Yep. Fever. 102.7.”

“Nuh uh!” Dean grabs the thermometer from Sam and squints at it for a moment before tossing it aside with a huff as if it betrayed him by reading him the same numbers Sam just said. “Well, this is fucking stupid.”

“Yeah…” Sam trails off as he watches a harsh shiver wrack Dean’s frame, concern bleeding into his voice as he tries to blink away the fuzzy edges creeping along the sides of his vision, just fuck off for a second, let him focus on Dean. “I’ll get you some meds to try and head this thing off before you get any worse.”

“I can get my own shit, Sam. It's not like I’m on my deathbed, so will you go lie your concussed ass down before I drag you there myself?” Dean’s foot is prodding Sam’s hip where he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, a nuisance and a comfort at the same time. “Lemme up.”

Blowing out a sigh, Sam cautiously levers himself up into a standing position and moves back to his own bed, shoving his half-eaten food container aside as he sits. He’s been fighting dizziness and that hint of nausea for a while now, just praying that the food might do something to calm his stomach, but it seems like it hasn’t done much at all. Sam wonders if it’s coincidence that whenever his eyes find Dean’s face that his head starts to throb a lot harder.

It hurts to stretch out on his left side because of the wound but Sam refuses to let his gaze stray from his brother as he stands and pads over to his duffel to begin his search for medicine. Dean waves Sam's words away when he calls out that Dean needs ibuprofen at the very least, “I got it, Sammy, I know what meds kick a fever, who do you think wiped your nose when you were sick, huh?”, and it’s all Sam can do to lie there and feel warm all over.

It’s just another reminder that this feeling that has permeated every aspect of Sam’s life, this thing that makes his body temperature crank up each time Dean smiles at him or makes his hands shake after Dean’s fingers finish absently scratching at the nape of Sam’s neck, it’s wrong.

It’s wrong because Dean is his brother, his blood and skin and hair all a match with Sam’s, because Dean changed his diapers, taught him how to tie his shoes, helped Sam pull out his first loose tooth and whispered the story of the tooth fairy into his ear and cheered when Sam produced a quarter the next morning with his little kid grin. It’s wrong and Sam wishes he could scrub himself clean, pour bleach into his bone marrow to let it eat out this unspeakable thing that has inched its way through his entire body, but he can’t. He’s been gone on his brother for far too long.

Soft fingers trail across the top of Sam’s forehead before scraping back the hair that has fallen into his eyes, so gentle compared to the rough edge of Dean’s voice as he asks, “You doin’ okay in there, little brother?”

Sam lets his eyelids slip shut at Dean's touch and lets out a long, low hum in response.

"Jesus. We sound like the beginning of a bad joke. A concussion, a fever, and two brothers walk into a bar..."

Sam can't help the snort of laughter that leaves him at that. No one quite knows how to be a mess as well as the Winchesters.

“We should both try ‘n get some sleep. Think you can manage?”

Sam nods tentatively.

“I gotta wake you up every few hours, though. Make sure you’re not coma-ing out on me.”

“‘S not even a real word, Dean,” Sam slurs out, sleep already sinking its claws into him, dragging him down and away.

Quiet chuckle, hot palm across Sam’s cheek, petting, burning, gone. He wonders if it’ll leave a mark on his skin. Then he’s blanketed by a dream he won’t remember.

-

Sam wakes to the feeling of someone, Dean, who else would it be, shaking his shoulder.

"Up and at 'em, kiddo. Lemme see those pretty greens."

It should really be illegal to have the kind of effect that Dean does on Sam. Heart pounding, stupid, stupid heart, Sam lets his eyes flutter open, his body vibrating in anticipation until they've adjusted enough to the dark so he can focus on his brother's face. The mattress has sunk down with Dean's weight, tilting Sam's body into Dean's hip where he's been lying on his side.

"Hey," Sam rasps.

"There he is. How's your head?"

Throbbing even worse now that Sam can smell Dean, that sleep scent of light sweat and something like honey that Sam has never understood. "How's your fever?" Sam deflects, lifting his hand until the backs of his fingers brush Dean's temple. Scorching. "Dean. You're burning up."

"I'm golden, Sammy,  's fine. Go back to sleep. I'll get us some coffee." Dean makes to stand but stops when Sam sits up and catches his wrist, tugging him back.

"Coffee? It's four in the morning. We don't need coffee."

Dean squints at him in the dark of the room like he just started speaking Ancient Mayan. "But it's coffee?"

"I'm concussed and you're running a high fever," Sam says, keeping his grip on Dean's arm. He can feel the steady pulse under his fingertips, lets it ground him and clear some of the fog that has settled over his mind. "We don't need to be up this early and we don't need to get out on the road. The job's done so we're gonna stick around here until we both are a little more functional, all right?"

Dean lowers his head and mumbles something, pulling lightly at Sam's hold on his wrist. It's only then that Sam can see that Dean's shirt is practically drenched in sweat, darker circles ringing his collar and under his arms.

"Jesus, Dean," he breathes, making himself get to his feet. "We've gotta cool you down."

Dean laughs before a cough cuts it short, raising his head to grin at Sam. He pauses and the smile drops, his brow furrowing as he looks up at Sam. "There's a joke opportunity here. I know it."

Scoffing, Sam sets the back of his free hand on Dean's forehead and then his cheek. He's really overheated.

"C'mon. Bathroom." Sam spins Dean around on the spot and plants his palms on Dean's shoulders to steer him where they want to go. He can feel the sickly hot waves pouring from Dean's body and he's even warmer to the touch despite a shirt in the way.

"What're we doin' here?" Dean asks, his head swinging around when he stops in front of the sink. Sam closes his eyes before switching the light on, lets the pulsing in his head get used to the red behind his eyelids before creaking them open slowly.

"Gotta get you cooled down. Bath should do it. Lukewarm." Sam turns them both towards the tub, a regular old thing with a bright yellow shower curtain hanging from the rod. "I think."

"You think?" Dean turns to squint up at Sam, knuckling at one of his eyes. Sam realizes he's still holding Dean's wrist. That Dean hasn't shaken him off or called him out on it. He lets go.

"Well, fuck if I know. You broke my laptop last week, remember, so I can't even look up if this is a good idea-- _no_ , don't give me that look, fucker, you know it’s your fault, it sure as hell wasn't me downloading a virus along with two hours of Asian porn, we both know that," and Dean heaves this huge sigh in Sam’s face because, yeah, point for Sam.

Dean says "these holes" all forlornly then paws at his t-shirt, a grey one now that Sam can see it in the light, which very clearly does not have any holes in it. Sam almost wants to cry at how child-like Dean looks, standing there barefoot in nothing but his shirt-and-briefs pajama combo near the edge of the bathtub with his eyes wide and shiny with fever and his hair sticking at different angles from where he slept on it wrong.

"What holes?" Sam asks as he blinks and squints at his hands batting Dean’s away before grabbing the hem of Dean’s shirt, trying not to think too much about the fact that he's undressing his brother.

"All of ‘em," Dean elaborates, and by ‘elaborates’ Sam means ‘continues to make absolutely no fucking sense’.

Dean wiggles his torso back and forth as Sam lifts his shirt up. It gets stuck around his head, caught on his chin, and Sam’s eyes are maybe kind of fixing on the expanse of flat chest and toned stomach that are just inches from him, so he doesn't exactly notice himself tilting forward until Dean’s yelling "whoa, whoa, WHOA!" and they’re both falling into the bathtub with a yelp.

Sam lets out a low groan because _ow_ , his fucking _head_ , he did not need to fall all that way, it was rough and jolting and now he has the lip of the tub digging into the front of his thighs from where he and Dean landed in their weird diagonal sprawl. Dean’s on his back, head resting on the curve of the tub with his head next to the faucet, with Sam on his stomach, more or less on top of Dean with most of his legs still hanging out over the edge.

Dean barely seems to notice that they’ve been taken down, too busy finishing tugging his shirt over his head before heaving a sigh of relief, his arms relaxing down onto his chest, apparently not bothering to shake it off his forearms.

Sam can see how much the fever’s affected him, blooming flowers of red just under his collarbone and up his neck, small apples brightening the tops of his cheekbones. It doesn’t help that Dean is covered in a thin sheen of sweat from head to toe, slick enough that when Sam plants both hands on either side of Dean’s ribcage to lift his body up and away from Dean’s that Sam’s t-shirt sticks to Dean’s chest before peeling free.

"We gotta--" Sam clears his throat, the dull, persistent throbbing at the back of his skull encouraging him to loosen the joints in his elbows, to sink back down into the comforting heat of Dean’s body beneath him. “I gotta get up,” he finishes lamely, trying not to think too hard about the fact that his cheek is plastered to his brother’s chest or that he can feel the twitch of Dean’s thighs on either side of his waist.

"Can just take a bath," Dean reasons with a shiver that Sam can feel along the length of his body. "Hot bath. Fuckin’ freezing right now."

Sam does his best to shake his head no, turns so his chin is resting on Dean’s collarbone in order for him to get the best angle to shoot Dean a glare. "I _told_  you, it needs to be lukewarm, not hot."

"Hey!" Dean complains, freeing one hand from his shirt to start pawing at the silver faucet right behind his head. "I’m the one who’s gonna be in it, I’ll decide what the fuck temperature I want it to be."

"You have a fever, Dean," Sam reiterates, frustration driving him to try and lift himself up and away from the too-hot body beneath him once again, his palms squeaking against the bottom of the tub. "That’s every reason why you shouldn’t be deciding what the fuck temperature it should be."

"Fuck you very much," Dean tells Sam ever so eloquently before wrenching the handle all the way to the little red dot in the metal circle surrounding it.

"Dean!" Sam splutters, trying to move, but the water now flooding over the bottom of the tub makes his palms give out from under him. "I don't-- _will you turn that thing off_?"

Lazy, flushed grin meets Sam’s incredulous blustering and it's all he can do to not lurch forward and kiss it right off of Dean’s face.

"C’mon, Sammy, bathtime! Jus’ like we used to!"

The water is still shooting out of the faucet, lukewarm edging hotter with each passing second, but it has nothing on the way Sam’s blood is boiling in his veins. Just as he's about to tell Dean off, he feels Dean’s foot hook under his left leg that's still splayed over the lip of the bathtub to swing Sam’s lower half fully in to tangle with Dean’s. It’s too cramped and Sam’s heart is in his throat but Dean is painfully oblivious, his head still resting next to the faucet as the water pours over his shoulder and seeps its way under his body to start to soak the front of Sam’s thighs.

"Jesus, man, we're not two and six anymore." Sam tries to sound mad, sound anything other than desperate to keep his body in the space between Dean's legs.

"'S only a bath, Sammy," Dean sighs, eyes closing and muscles relaxing before coughing with his mouth closed.

Right. Only a bath. Only two fully grown adults laying on top of each other in steaming hot water who also happen to be brothers. Sam's head gives a particularly vicious throb, making him hiss and raise a hand to his temple. His chin is back on Dean's chest and he tells himself it's because his arms are just gonna give out if he tries to push himself up again. Jesus, this is bad.

"Gonna give yourself third degree burns, genius," Sam sighs, squirming forward a little to paw at the handle, directing it more towards the middle where it should have been in the first place.

The rush of water is loud, echoing in the space of the bathroom, but it doesn't stop Sam from hearing the soft noise that leaves Dean's mouth the moment their bodies drag together. There's a dangerous coil of heat that sears the base of Sam's spine because maybe, just maybe. But then reality smacks into the back of Sam's head, a second invisible gravestone that rocks his core. Dean's half delusional with fever, lying in his own sweat and is very nearly dozing in the middle of a bathtub. He's not thinking straight, he's. It's not. It just isn't.

Sam takes a deep breath, sucking in the humid air that churned up from the hot water, and stoppers the tub so it can start to fill. His jeans are soaked all down the front, seeping into his boxers and the bottom of his shirt, and it's then that he's reminded of how much he hates changing out of wet clothes. But this is for Dean, so. So.

"Well, you don't really need me for this part," Sam says as firmly as he can. Refusing to take no as an answer from his own limbs, he plants one hand on the edge of the tub and the other on Dean's shoulder to start to heave himself up.

Just as he manages to rise to his knees, Sam hears a wet slap and turns just in time to see Dean's shirt on the tile floor. Blinking, he turns back to find Dean's eyes wide and shiny and on him, his mouth parted slightly as he breathes in and out. Sam feels his heart stutter in his chest, struck dumb by how beautiful Dean looks surrounded by steam, his cheeks flushed high with pink, the freckled plains of smooth skin along the broad of Dean's shoulders, the dip of his clavicle. Sam aches with the need to touch.

He doesn't touch. Instead, he swallows, throat clicking dryly. "Keep the temp on lukewarm, okay?"

Dean just stares at him, saying nothing. Sam's at a loss when he's caught in Dean's gaze. It's always been something that's cut him deep and rooted him where he stood, or in this case, is kneeling. Which happens to finally be in the one place Sam's wanted to be for as long as he can remember and the one place he's never allowed to go. He needs to leave.

Pushing up with shaky arms, Sam makes it into a crouch before he's suddenly back down at eye-level with his brother, their noses nearly bumping. He makes a noise, tries to figure out what it was that got him here again, he was sure he made his arms listen this time, so what--

Sam's shirt tightens against his collarbone, twisting to bite into the back of his neck. Twisting because it's caught in Dean's fist. Dean's fist in his shirt, which dragged him back into the bathtub. The connections finally spark in Sam's muddled brain, driving a low gasp out of the back of his throat when he takes into account that he can feel Dean's breath gusting across his mouth, damp like the air around them.

Everything slows down to match the dull pulses that are pounding the front of Sam's skull. There are details of Dean's face that he's never been able to see, always putting that safe distance between the two of them, but he's here now and he can't stop his eyes from scouring the masterpiece in front of him. Thick, long black lashes fluttering half-shut, some sticking together in wet triangles from where the water splashed across his face. The skim of freckles nearly hidden beneath the mesmerizing fever blush adorning Dean's cheeks. The one, single perfect imperfection on Dean's face, the slight bump in the middle of the arrow-straight of his nose from that time they got into a bar fight when Sam was eighteen and got accused of hustling and Dean had jumped in the moment one guy brandished a broken beer bottle.

"You gonna?"

Dean's raspy voice shatters Sam's trance, forcing his eyes up to meet the heated gaze piercing his soul. It's a taunt, a dare, like they're playing a game of chicken in the middle of a road back in those hazy summers when Sam's bones and muscles ached. Like they're not about to bowl over the giant red line screaming _incest_.

Sam parts his lips and sucks in a calming breath in hopes of settling his frantic heart, ready to tell Dean that this is because he's delusional with fever and they really have to get his temperature down and he's really going to regret this in the morning, God, is he going to regret this. All of that is right at the tip of his tongue, about to take the leap, except that Dean leans forward before he can say any of it and slowly bites down on Sam's bottom lip. Nothing short of a whine escapes Sam's throat instead as the resulting shockwave rockets down his spine and flays his nerves wide open. This seems to encourage Dean, who tugs gently but firmly on the lip he's captured to get Sam to tilt his head down and meet him more fully.

The world has slowed down, stopped, started spinning the wrong way, and Sam doesn't want to get off. He thinks he sees a line of black dots flickering across his vision but he shuts his eyes to make them go away. There's no way he's letting anything interfere with this, the one thing he's been craving for as long as his heart has been beating, the one thing he never thought he would ever experience. And, Christ, he's overthinking this, he's ruining it by staying in his goddamn broken head because Dean's letting go and pulling back, no, no, _no_.

Sam lifts a dripping hand and grabs hold of the side of Dean's neck, stopping him from moving away any further. Their pants mix with the already humid air hanging between their mouths, the only other sound being the rush of water still pouring from the faucet. The water in the tub has risen up to Dean's hips now, starting to seep into his lap to darken the rest of his briefs. Sam wants, wants so badly, but at the same time he can feel the heat radiating off Dean's chest. He's sick and there's so much wrong here in this delicate space between their mouths, so much to regret when they both wake up tomorrow in separate beds and spend their mornings staring at the ceiling wondering how to possibly begin to repair what was broken.

"Sam," Dean mumbles, forehead bumping his. "Sammy, c'mon, I want..."

"Dean," Sam whispers back. There's a hairpin moment where Sam feels them both pause and consider this, really consider this, before it snaps and Sam's resolve completely disintegrates.

Dean spreads his legs open wider, allowing Sam's body to sink down against his. The lukewarm water is pushed away from where their bellies meet, going as far as the edges of the tub before coming back to lap at Sam's ribs through his shirt. Sam slots in perfectly between Dean's thighs like he was made for it, the missing piece of this lifelong puzzle, and he can feel Dean's fingers sliding up into the hair at the back of his head, his gentle touch keeping to the right so as to not brush over Sam's injury. They both turn into each other at the same time, noses sliding together in that heartbeat where they share a breath before air no longer separates their mouths.

For whatever reason, Sam expects their first kiss to fly by in a rush of teeth and tongues, all bite and no finesse because of the desperation and the need that has been held at bay for so long.

It's nothing like that.

This is the most reverent kiss Sam has ever been given. Dean holds him like he's fragile in the way his other hand cups Sam's cheek, like he's the most precious piece of china. Like he deserves to be treated with care. There's so much love burning into the curve of Sam's jaw from where Dean's trailing his fingers as his lips soften and press and search for that give. Sam can't do anything except let Dean have this, have him, so he prostrates himself and all of his secrets as he whimpers and allows Dean's tongue to slip into his mouth. Dean's lips are rough, chapped slightly so they catch and drag along Sam's, but it only adds to the building pressure seething in the pit of Sam's stomach.

Moaning softly, Sam loses himself in the swirl of Dean's tongue around his own and the way Dean laps at the roof of his mouth like he's trying to taste every inch of Sam, like he's determined to embed the very essence of his little brother into his tastebuds. There's a quick click of teeth as Dean urges their heads to tilt at opposite angles from before, and somehow this position is even better, allows Dean to dive in even deeper.

It's almost too much, the feeling of Dean smiling into the kiss and the way Sam's heart is trying to claw its way out of his ribcage, so overwhelming that Sam has to lift a hand to the tiles by Dean's head to stop himself from falling face-first into the still growing tub of water. He can feel his fingers brush the knob so he forces them to close around it with whatever brain power he has left, yanking it down to the off position. The rush of water stops, the resulting silence making the air around them feel even heavier, laden down with the soft noises of their mouths moving together and pulling apart and the traded gasps neither one of them can hold back.

The first time Dean bucks into him, Sam has to tear his lips away so he can remember how to breathe. The second time is accompanied by slick hands on the skin of Sam's waist, sliding down into the back pockets of his jeans to grip the curve of his ass and urge the same movement out of him. That's the point where Sam has to bite down on Dean's shoulder to hide a moan and he can swear he tastes his brother's freckles.

There's no pretending it's anything other than what it is by the third thrust, especially when Dean's turned his mouth to the shell of Sam's ear and started begging in bursts of hot air, "Sammy" and "please" and "need to feel you", each word catching on the torn edges of Sam's soul to rip him open even further.

It's then that Sam shudders and lets the hand he has braced against the tiles slip back down into the water to press into the bottom of the tub. Leverage, he tells himself in a daze as he turns his open mouth up to the line of Dean's neck, tongue desperately seeking out heated skin. Catch and drag, the rough, soaked denim covering Sam's cock against the wet fabric of Dean's briefs, shooting sparks through every nerve in his body as he tries to stifle himself in a mess of teeth and muscles.

"C'mon," Dean grunts right in Sam's ear as he shifts, causing their hips to line up in a way that refuses to let Sam's next moan stay hidden in his throat. "Like that, yeah, Sammy, c'mon. Wanna hear you."

The litany of shaky groans that leave Sam after that should be mortifying, should stick to his skin and cut him like paper-thin knives with the guilt of wanting this so bad, wanting his _brother_  this bad, but they're moving as one and Dean is panting against his cheek so it only feels like it should, like it's everything Sam has ever dreamed.

Arcs of fireworks shoot down his spine to join that pool of heat deep in his belly, a familiar something building and spreading and growing with each knead of Dean's remaining palm that's still pulling Sam's ass down to meet each sloppy grind of his crotch. Sam can hardly breathe, has resorted to burying his face into the place where Dean's shoulder and neck meet so he can watch the way their bodies move, how Dean's abdomen clenches as he drives his hips up, the slap of disturbed water against the edges of the tub from their movements faint in the background of the buzzing that has made its home in Sam's ears.

He is suddenly struck with the need to touch, to feel the trembling folds of muscle for himself, so he lets the fingers wrapped around the side of Dean's neck trail down his chest instead, pausing only to skim over the hardened nub of his left nipple which earns Sam a shocked, cut off moan.

Unable to stop the smile spreading across his face, he continues his path downwards until his hand breaches the water that's growing cooler to become a contrast to the heat Dean's sick body is emitting. Sam traces the pads of his fingers across Dean's stomach, relishing the slip of the liquid barrier separating him from fully feeling skin against skin. It makes him think that maybe, on another morning, in a different motel room, he'll be able to touch Dean this way, map his body into the spirals of his fingerprints to keep him there forever.

Their rhythm is sloppy now, both of them breathing too hard to do anything other than let sounds of want and approval slip past their lips. Sam’s back muscles are cramping and he keeps feeling the urge to let out a manic laugh when he hears the squeak of their legs or hands dragging on the tub beneath the water but he wouldn’t trade this for anything.

He feels it when Dean is about to come, can hear it too in the way Dean sucks in a jagged breath and lets out little punches of “uh, uh, uh” with each accompanying grind of his clothed erection against Sam’s. Dean is close and Sam has to watch, has to see, so he pulls his head back and keeps his eyes on his brother’s face as he pushes his hand into the front of Dean’s tented briefs and closes his fingers around the hard length of his dick. One upstroke is all it takes for Dean’s body to bow up into a beautiful curve, his cock pulsing hot against Sam’s palm. He watches the flutter of Dean’s eyelashes and the way his full lips part open but still refuse to let out the choked gasps Sam knows are building on his tongue.

It’s only after seeing the way Dean’s face transforms when he comes that Sam is hit with a dazed sense of astonishment. He slams face first into the wall of reality that forces what remains of the logical part of his brain to come to terms with the fact that he’s holding his brother’s dick in his hand and has just succeeded in getting him off. He jolts when he feels Dean’s teeth close on the skin of his throat, the stream of “ _f_ _uck_ , Sammy, fuck, fuck” muffled against the shuddering jackhammer of his pulse.

“Shit,” Sam breathes, his chest screwing up tight into the base of his throat until he feels like he can’t breathe. “Oh, shit.” He’s still hard, blindingly so, desperate to pull the thickness of Dean’s thigh into his crotch so he can rut himself into oblivion, except for the panic that’s started seeping down the lines of his arms. He yanks his hand free from Dean’s still scorching hot and twitching skin and freezes completely.

Dean can tell immediately, of course he can tell, that something’s wrong, extracting himself to lean back and meet Sam’s eyes. He’s heart-stoppingly beautiful like this, the pink of the fever on his cheeks and down his neck mixing with the deeper red sex flush that has crept up his chest. The green in Dean’s eyes are thin rings around blown black pupils and his lips are swollen and inviting, the worst sin.

That suffocating fear is back, drowning Sam with dark fingers pushing on the back of his head, which makes it throb viciously. Wrong, it’s wrong, and Dean is sick, and it’s too much, this can’t possibly have happened without a catch because things like this don’t happen to Sam. He doesn’t get what he wants without blood and bruises and a broken heart, so why should this be any different?

Except.

Except that Dean is kissing him. Dean is moving his mouth, whispering, “It’s okay, Sam, it’s okay”, and his fingers drag down the zipper of Sam’s jeans at the same time his tongue slides past Sam’s lips. He has to grab Dean’s bicep and squeeze it hard to stay grounded, to make himself listen to the words Dean imprinted into the curve of his mouth. It’s okay. They’re okay.

Sam can feel it when the button of his jeans is opened, has to close his eyes and moan with relief at the sensation of no longer being restrained. That moan quickly transformed into something more guttural when Dean worms his fingers into Sam’s boxers to pull his erection free. Mind-numbing heat floods at the base of Sam’s spine at the first slick drag of palm up his length, followed by a second then a third. The tingling pressure is building too fast, jarring his gasps into sharp, broken things that leave his mouth open against Dean’s, unable to do anything other than let out these pitiful noises that Dean answers in kind.

He grips Dean’s arm harder when he’s close, fingernails biting into the meat of his muscle, solid and reassuring and still jerking Sam steadily, just this side of too hard. The water lapping the sides of the tub match the movements of Dean’s hand, adding to the sparks bursting from every nerve in Sam’s body. Close, so close, teetering on the edge as Dean swipes his thumb over the head of Sam’s dick before his lips are moving again to speak.

“Look at me.”

Shaking, he’s fucking shaking, sensory overload from hands and fingers and mouth and body, but Sam opens his eyes and sees his world in twin pools of black and green. Dean’s gaze doesn’t waver when their eyes meet, doesn’t blink even once. The curl of his fingers tightens as he twists up and squeezes before Sam is gone. Waves of pleasure flood his veins, his body snapping taut as he comes harder than he ever has in his life. Dean works him through it with strong, sure pulls, whispering something into the corner of Sam’s mouth as he’s reduced to nothing more but hitching whines.

When Sam comes down, he has to blink away the hazy film that had slid across his vision before he can see Dean clearly again. Dean’s eyes are still fixed on him, something akin to awe practically shining from his face. Immediately, Sam feels embarrassed and gets the urge to bury his burning face in the side of Dean’s neck even though he’s the one that Sam wants to hide from.

“You okay?” Dean asks slowly, his voice rough and used in a way that leaves a trail of goosebumps up both of Sam’s arms.

Swallowing hard, Sam takes a moment to feel himself out and make sure that what he’s about to tell Dean is the truth. When he’s sure, he nods. “I’m okay.”

A long, low laugh escapes Dean as he relaxes back and lets his head thump against the tiled wall. “Good. Because that? That I’ve been wanting to do for a while.”

Sam shakes his head, his muscles still trembling in disbelief. “That’s your fever talking.”

“‘S not, Sammy.” Dean rolls his head left to right, his version of shaking his head no. “Somethin’ as dumb as a fever isn’t gonna make me lie.” His fingers are catching in the front of Sam’s shirt again, like they were before this all started, easing Sam closer. “It sure gets rid of my filter, though.”

Sam can’t help it, a small smile tugging at the sides of his mouth as he nudges their noses together. “What filter?”

“Shut up,” Dean whispers right against his lips before sealing them with a kiss.


End file.
